


Wind Beaten Tree

by Nayarit



Category: Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-09-07
Updated: 2011-09-06
Packaged: 2017-10-23 12:17:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/250203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nayarit/pseuds/Nayarit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patient is underweight, pallid, and stares through hollow brown eyes. Patient is non-responsive. Patient is in her third trimester. Patient says that "it's impossible." "What do you remember?" Canon-AU/10years after Eclipse/Alternate-Breaking Dawn/Post-Breaking Dawn/Mystery</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wind Beaten Tree

**Author's Note:**

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"You're going."

"I don't want to."

"This isn't a negotiation," Charlie—her _Dad—_ said. Even after all these years, she still found it a struggle to refer to him as such. Even if, whether he was when she was little or not, it was true now, in every single aspect of the title. And as a father, Charlie Swan took his job seriously, because to him there was nothing more precious in this world.

He understood the loss of a daughter in such a profound way that he swore if he was given the chance ever again, to do "right by her," he wouldn't take it lightly. He hasn't ever since. Although, this time around the daughter didn't make it easy for him.

She knew the way he looked at her. They way her mother looked at her. The way they spoke of her behind closed doors, in hushed whispers, muted yells, and worried exchanges.

"Please, understand that your mother and I . . . this, this isn't _normal._ What you're doing to yourself, to the ba—"

"Don't."

She didn't have to see the disappointment in Charlie's eyes, the anxiety, the guilt, to know it was there. His stare was like a morning frost, you felt it tingle and sting along your skin, demanding notice.

With a lethargic, for many reasons she wouldn't acknowledge, shake of his head, Charlie threw the card on her desk before leaving her room. One final reminder that it would be this Thursday perched on his lips along with his mustache.

ooOOoo

"How are you feeling today?"

"Nauseous."

"That's understandable. Someone in your condition—"

And that was when her mind cut him off, and she decided she didn't like him. He was an idiot and she wondered how much Charlie was paying for this crap.

ooOOoo

The first appointment was all about introductions. He introduced himself to her—Clarke Marian, MD—and she introduced him to her favorite defense mechanisms: silence and bitch.

Although she highly doubted the success of her once most adored personality attributes, because the older man, with a nose that was wider and longer than any she had ever seen, wasn't deterred. Behind his thick glasses, his eyes held warmth that she neither wanted nor felt. But it was the patience that unraveled her . . . the slow cadence of his words, the opening of his palms when he addressed her, the gentle tilt of his head, the twitch to his large nose that was like a punctuation to his speech, and more often than not it was a question mark.

It didn't surprise her, then, that by the second meeting silence and bitch had checked themselves at the door and all she was left with was indifference.

In truth, all she had ever been left with was indifference; as much as she would like to believe that she was some semblance of her former self, it wasn't true. She wasn't even a shell of the woman she used to be, emotionally, mentally . . . physically.

It had been that way for the past ten years.

ooOOoo

"What did you eat today?"

When she didn't answer he mother sighed into the phone. It wasn't that she was intentionally starving herself, it was just that she didn't care, or remember.

"The doctor says that you've lost another three pounds." She sighed. Her mother heard it and that was usually when the arguments began, and she sincerely didn't think she could handle it today.

"I wasn't hungry."

"Don't give me that. Charlie said he bought pizza, make sure you have at least two slices."

"Mom, I have to go. I'll call you back."

"This is NOT over, do you hear me—" But to her it was over, as she hung up her cell phone and stared at it. Not but two seconds later she heard Charlie's phone buzz and clunk as it no doubt scattered across the coffee table in the living room.

She closed the door to her room just as she heard him answer. With a pain in her chest that never left her, she walked back to her bed. She was so tired, in all honestly she couldn't remember a time when she wasn't tired. Dizzily, she sat on the edge of her bed and cradled her head in her hands, as her elbows rested on her knees.

In the darkness of her room, her best friend depression took a seat next to her and rubbed her back, whispering nothings in her ear. When the tears fell from her eyes she didn't wipe them because she had become so used to them; not because of the pain, but because she just forgot to blink.

The pain was something she still hadn't grown used to, and she knew she never would. It wasn't that she hadn't tried. She tried _so_ very hard to move on. She tried _so_ very hard to forget. But it seemed that it wasn't ever as easy as wanting to do something versus doing it. And she found herself wondering, yet again, why he left her where he did, that day in the forest. She was fine where she was, he didn't need to intervene, to leave her.

To what . . . save her?

That had been his logic, no doubt. But was she saved? Was _this_ salvation? Living without him, without everyone she knew and loved, with the knowledge that it should have been her. To walk through life, limbless, devoid of everything, and yet still exist? This wasn't salvation and she was so mad at him for making the choice for her.

Hours passed, minutes, days . . . she never knew or kept track. When Charlie came into her room and sat with her as she ate two slices of pizza in front of him, they didn't speak. What could they speak of?

She wondered how he could even stand to look at her, after everything. There was no doubt that he loved her though, no matter how much she wished it wasn't true. Because if he continued to love her, she would continue to hurt him . . . just like she hurt her mom. And they had both lost so much already.

Worst still that they had to see that reminder of it every time they looked at her.

Her eyes stared out into the dark room until they couldn't support the weight of solitude and misery and _everything_ and closed. Depression tucked her in on her side before nesting into her and hugging her as she fell asleep, tear-stained, bloodshot, and shivering

ooOOoo

"Wh—what?" The fragile brunette's head twisted in the direction of the voice.

"I said that our time is up today, but I would like you to come back Thursday. The same time." His voice was direct, not demanding, but strong enough that it left little room for challenge. Not that the young brunette would challenge it; there wasn't much of a fight left in her at all.

There wasn't much of _anything_ left in her at all.

With the exception of the child growing inside her.

**Author's Note:**

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> **Thanks for reading! I'd love to know what you think.**   
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> **xxNaya**   
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